Vivian raises an eyebrow, probably wondering if the man simply forgot about taxes, the tip, and the glass of “the restaurant’s best red” he ordered, or if the windbag isn’t just a literary artist but also a shakedown pro. I’d say the second. And from the taut curve of her lips, I assume Medusa must’ve come to the same conclusion. Now, another question poses itself before her: to argue and make the windbag fork his real half of the bill, or shell out a few more bucks and be rid of the cockroach at once?

Vivian’s nostrils flare, but she bites her tongue, saying nothing.

I can’t help but notice the fleeting flash of triumph crossing Mr. Novelist’s face. He must think himself quite the clever man, when in reality he’s the joke.

Christopher the Cheap grabs his jacket from the back of his chair and comes to stand next to Vivian.

“Sorry, there was no chemistry between us. These arranged trysts don’t always work out. But I had a very pleasant time with you, Vivian. I’ll send you a link to buy my book when it comes out. Have a lovely day.”

And with that closing line, he waltzes out of the restaurant.

Medusa’s reaction is to glare at me as if daring me to say or do anything. And, I know I’m being petty, but I can’t help but return the grimacing thumbs-up gesture.

We pay for our bills at the same time and share an elevator ride downstairs.

Medusa stares at me, clearly dying to say something.

I groan and snap, “Come on, spit it out.”

She tilts her head, giving me a fake-innocent smile. “I was just trying to picture you wearing a bright orange jumpsuit.”

“My date might’ve had trouble confusing terms, but at least she didn’t use every single word she knew every time she spoke. And the performance that windbag put up not to pay for his fair share of the meal was stellar. Guess he was really invested in living up to the struggling artist stereotype.”

“At least my date paid for some of the meal. Thirty bucks is better than nothing; yours was a total freeloader.”

We’re still arguing as we exit the museum and step on the curb outside.

I eye her high heels dubiously. “Are you taking a cab home?” I ask her, realizing for the first time that I have no idea where she lives. Is she in Manhattan like me, or Brooklyn, or somewhere else entirely?

“Yup,” she says. “I’m not walking in these.” She wiggles a foot at me.

“Didn’t think so,” I say, trying not to get distracted by the magenta stiletto. My deranged brain at once wonders if her underwear matches the dress, or the heels, or neither. I swear, one glimpse of lace has doomed me for life.